


all dead paper, mute and white

by Doranwen



Category: A Little Princess - Frances Hodgson Burnett
Genre: Backstory, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-14
Updated: 2015-07-14
Packaged: 2018-04-09 06:11:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4336940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doranwen/pseuds/Doranwen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Amelia keeps trying to write letters, and they never quite work.</p>
            </blockquote>





	all dead paper, mute and white

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rosied](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosied/gifts).



> Credit goes to luminareardua and Flamebyrd for brainstorming help.  
> Framlingem and Naraht provided help with details of life in the mid-late 1800s.  
> Beta help credit goes to LeaperSonata.  
> Framlingem gets credit for the summary, as well as for spotting the title in [this poem](http://www.poetryfoundation.org/learning/guide/239156#poem).  
> Thank you all so much!

_Eight years old_

Amelia opens her eyes. The sky is still full of ink, but there's a hint of chalkiness on one horizon. She slips out of bed and shivers at the cold. Stretching, she winces at the pain shooting through bruised knuckles. "No daydreaming!" she hears in her mind, the governess rapping the ruler down with a sharp smack. Her stomach rumbles—"Such appalling behavior! No supper tonight."—and she sinks into the chair, pulling the lap desk into position. The lid creaks as she opens it and slides a creamy piece of stationery onto it. Her hand grips the pencil tightly as she begins to write _"Dear Father"_. One of the lines goes crooked; she rubs it out and tries again.

The words are difficult; she must get the spelling right, or Father will call her a dunce. If only he had chosen another woman for governess, one who wouldn't hate her. (Maria never seems to care whether the governess likes her or not.) Mother understands, of course. Mother always understands. But it doesn't help anything; no one listens to her. She slowly scrawls the plea on the sheet of paper— _"a different governess?"_ —before putting down the pencil and rereading. Footsteps echo in the hallway, and the paper is hastily folded and shoved under her mattress— _what does it matter, he won't listen_. She has just enough time to put the lap desk away and scurry into her bed again before the maid enters.

 

_Eleven years old_

"Stop sniveling, child." The order is sharp, cutting through the haze of Amelia's grief. She rubs her eyes in an attempt to stop the flow of tears, trying to fix her vision on the coffin being lowered into the ground. _Mother!_ She doesn't dare speak the word aloud. She already knows what would happen.

At home, she can't hold it in as easily. Banishment from the supper table comes almost as a relief—with the knot of misery in her stomach, she doesn't know how she would choke anything down. She pulls out sheet of paper from her lap desk and finds her pencil. _"Dear Mother,"_ she begins writing. A tear drops on the page, staining it. Mother had never had a strong constitution, but the last year saw her in a steady decline. Her already pale skin became paler, almost transparent. She died a ghost of the mother Amelia still remembers from early childhood.

She pours out her longing and sorrow into the letter. She has never dared keep a diary; she knows it would be found and read. But there is a loose floorboard in her room that no one else has discovered yet, and it is there that she places the carefully folded letter. Her mother will never see it anyway.

 

_Fourteen years old_

_Where is it?_ Amelia pulls out drawers, lifts boxes on her dressing table, opens the wardrobe. She can't find the necklace anywhere. It's only a string of seed pearls, but Mother had worn it ever since Amelia can remember. It was the one thing Amelia could claim from her possessions after she died.

She has her suspicions as to what has happened. It isn't the only thing to vanish. She wonders if Father's business is failing, but has no way of knowing for sure. Maria she sees little of these days; she's not sure what is going on with her.

"What are you doing?" Maria calls from the open doorway.

"Looking for my necklace," Amelia replies. "Do you know where it is?"

"You mean this?" Maria dangles it from her hands. "I need it, and it's not really yours anyway." She turns and strides down the hall.

Amelia has no reply; she can never argue against Maria. But perhaps—she pulls out a sheet of stationery and sits down at her secretary. She picks up a fountain pen and begins to write. _"Dear Maria,"_ she starts, as the quietness of the paper gives her the words she can't find face-to-face. She finishes and leaves it folded on the desk while she goes looking for her sister, but can't find her anywhere.

When Maria comes back that evening, Amelia asks her where the necklace is now. "I sold it," she says, looking at Amelia with an expression that clearly asks 'Are you stupid?' Amelia thinks perhaps she was, as she tears up the letter and closes the desk. Maria always has a good reason for things.

 

_Thirty-six years old_

Amelia looks out the window. A maid helps a dark-haired girl out of a carriage next door. Maria, looking over her shoulder, hmphs and stalks out of the room. Amelia glances down at her hands. She could have said something, changed something. She could have, but she didn't. She has never regretted a decision more. Could Sara understand? She doubts it.

The feeling of helplessness lifts suddenly when she catches sight of the writing desk. Maybe, just maybe, there is a chance? She locks the door and finds a spare piece of paper. She takes a deep breath as she picks up the pen and starts to write. _"Dear Sara,"_ she writes. She avoids the emotional pleas of her childhood, setting down the facts starkly with a simple apology.

She carries the folded letter downstairs to find the new scullery maid. "Nellie," she calls.

"Yes, mum?" The slip of a girl bobs her head slightly.

"Wash your hands and take this letter next door," Amelia commands. She watches from the window as the maid is met at the door and the message received. Her fingers tap each other before she makes herself go to check on the students. She must have patience—and hope. She doesn't know if she dares to hope.

 

_Thirty-six years old, the next morning_

She's just shooed the last of the girls into the schoolroom when the maid answers the door. A moment later, she hands Amelia a thick letter. It's Sara's reply, in lovely almost-adult handwriting, and Amelia clutches it involuntarily as hope resurges through her. A strange new feeling sinks into her heart, and she reaches into her pocket for a spare penny.

"Mum?" asks Nellie, eyebrows furrowed as she takes the penny.

Amelia has no words to answer, instead waving her hand in dismissal as she walks into the empty office and closes the door. She sinks into the chair and opens the letter with trembling fingers. _"Dear Miss Minchin,"_ it begins. She holds her breath as she continues. The response is very like Sara—thoughtful, humble, wise; there's understanding in a way she had never expected. Her eyes close briefly before she walks out of the room. She will tell Maria that she won't be at their usual afternoon tea. She won't listen to anything Maria has to say about it. It's time to make words work for her.

She extends a hand, reaches for the doorknob, takes a deep breath. She smiles. 


End file.
